One Good Turn
by Susan M. M
Summary: Triple Crossover: Man from UNCLE, The Quest, Starman. Paul Forrester and Scott Hayden are on the run, with Agent Fox close on their heels. Luckily, Sir Cody has experience in avoiding les gendarmes. A story in the UNCLE's Knight series.


**Standard Fanfic Disclaimer** that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. Mais oui, that's it, typing practice. They will be returned to their original owners relatively undamaged, or at least suitably bandaged.Based on characters and situations from The Quest (created by Juanita Bartlett and Stephen J. Cannell), The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (created by Sam Rolfe), and _Starman_ (created by Bruce Evans and Raynold Gideon). Originally published in the fanzine Diamonds and Dynamite #4, published by Agent with Style.

 **One Good Turn**

an UNCLE's Knight story

 _Starman/The Quest/The Man from UNCLE_

by Susan M. M.

 _Washington, DC, springtime, 1987_

Paul Forrester threw a discreet look over his shoulder. "I don't see him."

His son, Scott Hayden, did not reply. He wanted to save his breath for running. They were walking on a sidewalk in Washington now, but they might need to run again soon. Fox was hunting them. Not a cute, furry red fox, but FSA agent George Fox.

Paul Forrester appeared to be a tall human in his mid-thirties. He was ruggedly handsome, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Scott was fourteen, going on fifteen, also dark-haired. Had they been only what they seemed, the FSA would have left them alone.

George Fox of the Federal Security Agency was chasing them because "Paul Forrester" was really an alien, inhabiting a cloned body of the late Paul Forrester. Scott Hayden was his half-breed son, conceived on his first visit to Earth.

Fox's assistant, Agent Ben Wylie, yelled, "There they are!"

Paul and Scott took off running. Fox, Wylie, and two other agents chased them. Running, dodging, turning corners, doubling back, Paul and Scott desperately sought to elude them.

A black limousine pulled up. It had diplomatic plates and white flags with red stripes at the top and bottom, with some sort of crest or seal in the center.

The door to the back seat opened. A stranger's voice invited, "Get in."

Scott hesitated. "It might be a trap."

"Might not be." Paul pushed Scott into the car, then climbed in himself and shut the door.

Their savior called out an order in French.

" _Mais oui, monseigneur_ ," the chauffeur replied.

The passenger in the back seat of the limousine was a handsome, dark-skinned man of African heritage. He was younger than Paul's physical form, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His black hair and mustache were neatly trimmed. He wore a three-piece suit, that to an eye that recognized fine tailoring, was obviously from London's Bond Street.

"You look like you could use a hand. Is there someplace I can drop you off, or will it be enough to break your trail?" His English was fluent, but he spoke with a slight - very slight - French accent.

Paul hesitated before answering. "It should be enough to break the trail."

"Who are you?" Scott demanded. He knew his father was too trusting sometimes.

"Right now, you don't know who I am and I don't know who you are. Maybe that's for the best, _n'est-ce pas_?" the stranger asked.

"Maybe," Paul allowed cautiously.

Scott was surprised at Paul's reticence. Normally his father was gullible enough to trade a cow for beans.

"I know you're in trouble. And my intuition says you're, _comment dites-vous_ , the guys in the white hats, and the men chasing you are the guys in the black hats."

"We're not wearing any hats," Paul said, confused by the metaphor.

They heard a gunshot. The limousine pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

The stranger pushed a button. A tinted glass barrier rose, separating the front seat from the back seat. "One-way glass. They cannot see us, and if you are quiet, they cannot hear you."

Muffled voices came through the glass.

"Did you not see the diplomatic plates, _monsieur_? This car is not subject to your authority," the chauffeur insisted.

"I am chasing fugitives, very dangerous fugitives. You'll let me search that car, or I'll shoot your tires out," Fox threatened. "I'm a federal agent and -"

The stranger lifted a finger to his lips. He pushed the intercom button. "Jean-Paul, what is the problem? I am on important business and cannot be delayed."

" _Je regret_ , _monseigneur_ , but this man is a federal agent. He demands to search your car."

"Demands? I have diplomatic immunity. If he searches this car, His Majesty will lodge an official protest with President Reagan - personally."

"And you are, sir?" Fox asked.

"I am Sir Cody Villaire-d'Estanville, Royal Envoy of His Majesty, King Daniel of Glendora."

"I have reason to believe you're not alone in that car, _monsieur._ I'm in pursuit of some very dangerous fugitives," Fox said.

"It does not matter if I am alone or if I have seven harem girls stolen from the Sultan of Brunei. I have diplomatic immunity. You will not touch this car. Either step back or my chauffeur will drive over your toe. Jean-Paul, _allons-y_ ," Sir Cody ordered.

Jean-Paul drove off. He turned left, then right, driving in circles to lose Fox.

"Diplomatic immunity?" Paul was unfamiliar with the phrase.

"I'll explain later," Scott whispered. Aloud, he asked, "You're a knight?"

Cody nodded. "Errand runner and troubleshooter for the king. Sometimes the errands are of a delicate nature. I've been chased once or twice myself." His French accent wasn't as strong now.

" _Êtes-vous bien, monsigneur_?" Jean-Paul called back.

" _Oui, oui_. Head for the university, near where the students eat," Sir Cody ordered.

A few minutes later the limo stopped near one of Washington's many universities. It parked on the street, near a pizza parlor, a sandwich shop, and a burger joint.

"One thing about being on the run. Meals are irregular." Cody reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed Paul a twenty dollar bill. " _Bon chance_."

"Thank you," Paul said.

"Thanks, uh, _merci_ ," Scott said.

They got out of car and walked into the pizzeria. Cody ordered Jean-Paul to drive off.

"Unless you get a receipt for their meal, that money is coming out of your pocket, not the expense account," Jean-Paul warned.

"I know." Cody put his wallet back in his pocket.

In addition to being his chauffeur, Jean-Paul Bourdette was an UNCLE agent, just like Sir Cody. The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement was a global agency, chartered by the United Nations to maintain political and legal order throughout the world. Multinational in makeup, international in scope, UNCLE protected and defended all nations regardless of size or political persuasion. Their principal foes were international criminals and terrorists. As royal envoy, Sir Cody far outranked his chauffeur. As UNCLE agents, Jean-Paul and Cody were equal partners. And when it came to expense accounts, Jean-Paul was a stickler.

* * *

Jean-Paul parked the limo, then opened the door for Sir Cody. "You can handle this, _non_?"

" _Mais oui_." Cody could certainly handle dropping off the microfilm by himself, and it might look suspicious if his chauffeur followed him rather than waiting with the car.

" _C'est bon_. I need to find the restroom."

Cody nodded. "I should only be a few minutes."

Cody frowned when he found the door to Dr. István Ráskay's office locked. There was a note taped to the door, that Dr. Ráskay's office hours were postponed, as he was substituting for Dr. Jefferson's class. He glanced both ways to make sure no one was watching, then pulled his pen-communicator out of his pocket so he could inform Jean-Paul of the delay.

* * *

Over pizza and soda, Scott tried to explain - as best he could at his age - Earth's multinational nature, international politics, and diplomatic immunity. Paul was confused. He couldn't understand why Earth had so many countries, and asked why it wasn't united as one planet. As a high school freshman who'd missed a lot of school, Scott wasn't able to answer most of his question. He had to say "I don't know" a lot.

"We're a block from the university," Scott said finally. He had no idea which university it was: Howard or Gallaudet or George Washington or Georgetown or one of the others. But he knew one thing all universities had. A library. "Maybe we can walk over and go to their library. Heck, I've never even heard of Glendora."

His mouth full, Paul nodded.

* * *

Sir Cody lounged in the hallway. He watched as several students followed a balding professor to his office. Cody waited until the students finished speaking with him and left before he approached.

Cody knocked on the half-open office door of Dr. István Ráskay. In French, he announced, "Budapest is beautiful at this time of year."

Dr. Ráskay, a middle-aged man, looked up. In the same language, he replied. "Budapest is beautiful at any time of year."

Dr. Ráskay spoke French with a strong Hungarian accent. Cody spoke French like a native Glendoran. When he had first joined UNCLE, Cody had spoken only thirty words of French, and mispronounced most of them. Now he could speak fluent French, with a Glendoran accent, a Quebec accent, or a Senegalese accent. He also spoke Italian, with a French accent rather than American.

Dr. Ráskay gestured for Cody to come in. The knight did so, closing the door behind him. "Have you truly been to Budapest," he asked, "or is that merely a code phrase?" He spoke in English now. His Hungarian accent was strong. The homesickness in his voice was stronger.

"I have and it is," Cody lied diplomatically. He'd hated Budapest.

* * *

Scott thumbed through the World Book Encyclopedia. Paul skimmed through Encyclopedia Britannica, Collier's, and Funk & Wagnall's, reading the pages at lightning speed. For every answer Paul found, it led to a dozen further questions to research. Glendora, they'd learned, was a postage-stamp kingdom, which had practiced an odd form of tanistry twice in its history. King Charles-Philippe, having outlived his heirs, had held a quest a few years ago to determine the next king.

"Wow, Glendora has two kings," Scott said.

Paul looked up from a map of Europe. Glendora was on the Mediterranean, surrounded by water on one side and France on the other three. "Is that unusual?"

Scott bit back the urge to say 'duh.' "It's called a monarchy 'cause there's only one ruler. Like a monocle for one eye." He glanced down at the book. "This says that after following the medieval precedent to find the new king by having a quest to prove which heir was worthiest, King Charles-Philippe revived another medieval custom, of having the heir to the throne crowned during the lifetime of the old king, so there wouldn't be any problems with the succession when he died."

"Are there normally problems when your leaders die?" Paul asked.

"Not here in the U. S., no. They've got a chain worked out. If the president dies, the vice-president takes over. And if he does, I think the secretary of state is next in line, and so on, down through the whole cabinet. But in the old days, when a lot of countries had kings and queens, sometimes they had revolutions and revolts when the old king died."

"And they inherit their leadership roles? What if a king's son isn't a good leader, or doesn't want to be a leader?"

"That happened sometimes."

"That doesn't sound very efficient," Paul said.

Scott shrugged. "That's why monarchies are dying out."

"What's that?" A table near the encyclopedias caught his eye. Paul stood and walked over to investigate. Scott closed his book and followed him. Paul read the sign aloud. "Free to a good home."

"Free books. Neat," Scott said.

"Free? They're just giving them away?" Paul was a little surprised. Earthlings weren't always as generous as they could be, he'd noticed.

"Libraries do that sometimes, to get rid of old books and make room for new ones." Scott began looking over the books. "This is a kid's book, but you might like it."

Paul took the book Scott handed him. "Aesop's Fables?"

"Might help with Earth culture and figures of speech," Scott suggested. He turned back to the pile of free books, looking to find something for himself. His father sat down and began reading.

* * *

The office door opened. Dr. Ráskay and Sir Cody looked up, expecting to see another student who simply hadn't bothered to knock. Instead, they saw a bearded man and a blonde woman. Both were pointing guns at them. The woman pushed the door shut with her foot.

Cody's eyes widened. The guns both had silencers. Over the general hubbub of the campus, no one would hear the bullet with the door shut. His UNCLE special was in his pocket. It was a modified Walther P38, loaded with tranquilizer darts instead of bullets. There was no way he could draw it before one of the pair would shoot him or Dr. Ráskay, so he didn't even try.

"Hands up, gentlemen." The gunman, a dark-haired man in his late thirties or early forties, spoke English with a Russian accent. "The microfilm, please."

"Microfilm? What do you mean?" Dr. Ráskay reached for the telephone on his desk.

The woman shot the phone. Dr. Ráskay nearly stumbled, backing away from his desk.

Sir Cody raised his hands. His mother hadn't raised any foolish children, and he had learned years ago not to argue with people with guns.

"We know you have been in touch with traitor Dr. Szabó," the gunman continued.

Dr. Ráskay protested, "F-Ferenc Szabó is a respected scientist, not a -"

The blonde shot Sir Cody in the chest. He crumbled to the floor. She said something in Russian.

"You're right," her partner said in English. "Too much talking. Dr. Ráskay, you will come with us, or you will be next."

The blonde said something else in Russian.

"And you will bring the microfilm, or we will shoot him again, this time in the head," the gunman translated for her.

His hands shaking, Dr. Ráskay opened his desk drawer, removed the microfilm, and handed it to him. He glanced down at Cody, as if expecting him to leap up after 'playing possum' and tackle the two. Instead, the UNCLE agent merely lay on the floor, bleeding.

The gunman reached over and grabbed the professor's shoulder. "You will come with us. Quietly. My orders are to bring you in alive. They said nothing about bringing you in whole."

Pale-faced and shaken, Dr. Ráskay nodded. He let the two lead him out of his office.

Sir Cody waited until he had heard the door shut behind him. With trembling fingers, he pulled his pen-communicator out of his pocket. "J-jean-paul."

" _Oui_. What is the delay, _monseign_ -"

"Russians. Two. " He coughed up blood, and couldn't continue for a second. "Took Ráskay. Got microfilm."

"KGB? Mercenaries?" Jean-Paul asked.

"Took Ráskay," Cody repeated. The pen fell from his hand as he said, "Need an ambulance."

"Cody? Cody!"

* * *

Scott and Paul walked across campus, each carrying a grocery bag of books. Paul noticed a sensation within his nether regions. There were inconveniences in carrying his alien consciousness inside a cloned human body. It meant he was subject to human weaknesses and inconveniences.

He pointed to the science building. "Do you suppose that building would have a bathroom?"

"Sure," Scott replied. He was fairly sure that every building on campus would have a bathroom.

"Let's go in. Too much soda at lunch." Paul headed for the east door of the science building, and Scott followed him.

* * *

Jean-Paul Bourdette waited in the bushes outside the west door of the science building. He saw three people come out, two men and a woman. He recognized Dr. Ráskay from his dossier. He aimed his UNCLE special and fired.

The first tranquilizer dart hit Ráskay. That was deliberate. Even if the kidnappers escaped, they'd be forced to leave the scientist behind; he would be too difficult to carry.

Jean-Paul fired again. The two Russian agents fell to the ground. He strolled up to the three unconscious bodies. He removed some wire sewn into the cuff of his pants and used it to bind the kidnappers' hands behind their backs. Then he pulled his pen communicator out of his pocket.

"Cody? Come in, Cody."

There was no response. Jean-Paul frowned. He adjusted the frequency on the pen. "Open Channel D."

A woman's voice came over the pen. "Channel D open."

"This is Agent Bourdette. I've captured two enemy agents, possibly KGB, who were trying to abduct Dr. Ráskay. They're out cold for the next two or three hours. But I've lost contact with Agent Villaire-d'Estanville. He's not responding."

* * *

Cody dragged himself to his feet. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, whether he'd only closed his eyes for a moment to catch his breath or whether he'd lain bleeding on the floor for a while. He staggered to the door.

It took him a minute to manage the simple task of turning the knob and opening the door. It was class time. The hallways were empty. He leaned against the wall to support himself and stumbled down the corridor. He tried the first door he came to. It was locked. He continued on, leaving a blood trail behind him. The next door was also locked. He shook the handle. Normally a locked door wouldn't have slowed him down much. Before being knighted by King Charles-Philippe of Glendora, he'd been a con artist and a petty thief. After the quest for the throne had ended, he'd become an UNCLE agent, with even more training in picking locks and outwitting security systems. But he was going into shock, and he'd lost a lot of blood.

He tried the handle one more time. Then he collapsed on the floor.

* * *

"I heard something. Something weird," Scott insisted.

Paul and Scott came around the corner of the hallway. They saw Cody lying on the floor. They dropped their bags of books and ran to him.

"He's hurt," Paul said.

Scott realized, "He's been shot."

"Do you suppose Fox came after him for helping us?" Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver sphere, about three centimeters in diameter. It looked like a ball bearing, except for the fact ball bearings didn't glow.

Scott removed an identical sphere from his own pocket and cradled it in his hands. It, too, began to glow an eerie blue.

"You concentrate on strengthening him. I'll try to remove the bullet," Paul said. He stared at the silver sphere. He closed his eyes. A few seconds later the bullet reversed its course and excited Cody's body. Then Paul began focus on closing the wound and redirecting the flow of blood.

Cody's eyelids fluttered. He coughed up blood. He began taking short, shallow breaths. He coughed again, but this time no blood came up.

"We're doing it!" Scott's voice was excited. He was still new to using his powers.

Cody opened his eyes. "What? How?"

"Easy, you've lost a lot of blood," Paul said gently. "You'll need to go to a hospital."

Cody glanced at his finely tailored clothes, now blood-soaked and ruined. He took a deep breath. He didn't like the sight of blood, especially his own. "Are you some sort of wizard?"

"Right now, you don't know who we are and we don't know who you are. Maybe that's for the best, _n'est-ce pas_?" Scott quoted Cody's earlier words back to him. His sphere stopped glowing, and the boy put it in his pocket. His father still held his sphere in his hand. Its glow had not faded yet.

Cody asked, "What are those things? How does something that small pack such a wallop?"

Scott said, "My Mom always said diamonds and dynamite come in small packages."

"You saved my life. I don't know how you did it, but you saved my life."

"You saved us from Fox," Paul reminded him. He quoted the book he'd just read. "One good turn deserves another."

* * *

 **Author's Notes** : the line "diamonds and dynamite come in small packages", from which the fanzine in which this story was originally public takes its name, is actually from the _Star Trek_ novel  Uhura's Song by the late Janet Kagan (1946 - 2008).

* * *

Scott forgets that the presidential line of succession goes from the vice president to the speaker of the house to the president of the senate pro tempore, and then to the secretary of state. But he's only fourteen, and he has missed a lot of school.


End file.
